


Stay Close

by hubrisandwax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apologies, Coda, M/M, Pie, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, but not really, food with sex, for 8.22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m an Angel of the Lord, Dean. I should be able cook a pie,” Cas grumbles, stiffening against Dean’s arms. “I laid siege on hell.  I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. I managed to build you from dust and earth and grace; how can baking a pie be more complex than that? I don’t-“</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean wakes to a crash in the bunker after the events of 8x22 to find Cas cooking him an 'apology pie' in the kitchen. Dean decides that sex is a better apology than pie. </p><p>DeanxCas with bonus pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Close

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr [here](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/post/50922372904/deanxcas-pwp-bonus-pie-under-the-cut-i-took). Part of the tumblr fic prompt thing - the prompt was "teaching Cas to cook". Written because of a conversation that included Cas 'coming Dean a pie' instead of cooking him one, and also because my friends are dicks (I love you all).
> 
> Title taken from the [Delorean song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGyvdmaPcs8) of the same name.
> 
> I took enormous liberties; this breaks canon so hard, I’m not even sorry.

Dean wakes to a crash somewhere in the bunker.

For a heart-stopping moment, he doesn’t realise where he is. Adrenaline floods his system in agonising pulses and he bolts upright, years of conditioned fight-or-flight response and PTSD kicking in, the world smeared by sleep and cast to charcoals and greys by the moonlight that seeps in through the window beside the bed. Nauseating panic rolls across his stomach, senses hyper-alert. Reality slowly slides back to place as he grasps for proper consciousness, familiar surroundings becoming clear, his heart rate slowing to a dull throb.

Angry red numbers flicker up at him from beside the bed. It’s fucking three-thirty in the morning – who is goddamn stupid enough to be wandering around the Bunker at this time of night, breaking things? Dean shifts his weight off the bed, pulls his gun from his bedside table, grabs his bathrobe from the hook on the back of his door, and walks briskly out in to the hallway.

No one else appears to be up, on initial check. Well, no light is trickling from under the doors to Sam and Kevin’s rooms, at least. Dean is suddenly on alert; he flicks the safety off and moves in to a more defensive stance, back pressed against the wall, gun at the ready.

Suddenly there’s another crash, this time from the kitchen. A muffled curse-word joins the clatter of metal on metal. Dean moves swiftly, stepping forward and around the wall, drawing his gun, pushing the door open–

He steps in to the room, gaze landing on a very disgruntled Cas, covered in flour and arms deep in a metal bowl. “The  _fuck_?” Dean says, dropping the gun to his side. Cas’s expression morphs from very annoyed to sheepish in a heartbeat as he looks across the counter island at Dean.

Dean immediately sees the source of the noise; Cas has managed to knock half the dry goods from the pantry on to the kitchen floor, and there’s god knows what trailed halfway across the linoleum.

“They didn’t have any pie,” Cas says, by way of explanation. He tilts his head towards the shopping back on the counter. Inside appears to be a carton of half broken eggs, toilet paper, Dean’s favourite sort of beer, a packet of beef jerky and… is that a copy of  _Busty Asian Beauties_?

“Uh,” Dean says, speechless. A million questions skitter across his mind –  _where have you been why have you been ignoring my prayers why don’t you trust me why do you always leave me –_ but instead all he manages to get out is, “You bought me  _toilet paper_ and  _porn?_ “

Cas frowns. “Is that unacceptable? You mentioned needing to go on a grocery run, so I took the liberty of going myself. I tried to purchase what I thought you’d want or require.”

Dean laughs. He feels a rush of affection for the stupid angel, the tension leaking from his body with every chortle. “For fuckssake, Cas. That doesn’t explain the warzone here, though. Jesus Christ. Is the only collateral so far those eggs and the floor?”

“I’m trying to cook a  _pie_ , Dean,” Cas says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh,” Dean replies, laughter dying. “So you um, didn’t forget the pie.” He feels like this is significant, somehow. Something warm pools low in his gut.

Cas just huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Doesn’t  _look_ like pie, though.” Dean flicks the safety back on and places the gun on the kitchen bench before moving to stand behind Cas.

“Because cooking is difficult,” Cas says. “I have to rub the butter in to the flour, but it doesn’t want to  _mix_. It needs to look like‘breadcrumbs’, according to the recipe, but at the moment it just looks like lumps of yellow in white.”

 “Stubborn butter?” Dean teases. “Did you warm it first?”

Cas is silent.

“There’s your problem, then.” Dean gently reaches around Cas and eases his hands out of the bowl.

“I’m an Angel of the fucking Lord, Dean. I should be able cook a pie,” Cas grumbles, stiffening against Dean’s arms. “I laid siege on hell.  I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. I managed to build you from dust and earth and grace; how can baking a pie be more complex than that? I don’t-“

“Shut up,” Dean interrupts, pressing his lips against the bolt of Cas’s jaw, mouthing at the sandpaper-rough stubble and skin. 

“You don’t understand, Dean; I’m trying to apologise, and they didn’t have the  _pie_ , _”_ Cas whines, twisting against Dean’s grip in frustration. Dean’s response is to flip Cas around so they’re flush against each other, Dean crowding Cas up against the counter, hands wrapped around Cas’s upper arms. 

“No,” Dean says resolutely. Cas refuses to look at him, head tilted away, gaze cast somewhere at the floor behind Dean’s shoulder.

“But –“ 

“No.” 

Cas exhales irritably, finally turning the force of that blue gaze on Dean. Dean relaxes his grip and proceeds to tug the ridiculous trench coat off Cas’s shoulders.

“Stop acting like a goddamn child and help me take your clothes off.”

“I’m not a…  _oh_ ,” he says, realisation dawning. He shrugs out of the coat, letting the tan material flutter to the floor.

“I know you’re not a child – you’re a millennia-old wavelength of celestial intent, or whatever. But right now, you’re throwing a tantrum that rivals even Sammy’s bitchiest days as a kid,” Dean says, fingers working at the buttons of Cas’s shirt. “And don’t mojo off your clothes to prove a point – I get it." 

They haven’t done this since purgatory – haven’t even talked about it. Fumbled blowjobs a few metres from camp as Benny slept, hurried for convenience; handjobs in the quiet of the dawn; awkward, quick, clothed releases against the forest floor with only spit as lubricant. The acts were physical illustrations of sentiment – well, inasmuch as mutual cock-sucking can be, when words are not enough to cross the barrier. When they can’t forge those desired bonds. It was easy. Reality, however: not so much.

Cas is silent and pliant under Dean’s hands, shuddering as Dean runs his palms against the smooth skin of Cas’s stomach. He divests him of his too-white dress shirt and crooked tie and proceeds to suck bruises against Cas’s collarbone.

Cas begins to move, too, then; his own hands work their way around the collar of Dean’s bathrobe, pushing it off his shoulders. Dean complies. He bites down particularly hard on Cas’s neck as he twitches the robe off, and Cas flails, body jerking. He falls backwards and manages to knock a pot of something yellow all over his front. Dean laughs; Cas looks pissed.

“Now I’m sticky,” he grumbles.

“’Sif that makes a difference. You’re gonna get sticky anyway.” Dean says. He runs his hands through the mess, hands slipping to trace the curve of Cas’s bony hips through the pale mush. “What even is it?”

“Apple custard filling,” Cas growls, and goddamnit, those words shouldn’t sound so hot. Then again, Cas could recite the Bible in his smoke and razorblades rumble and it would give Dean a hard-on. Dean can’t help but kiss Cas then, chapped lips and sweet apple as he licks in to Cas’s mouth; clearly Cas has been sampling the cooking. He manages to successfully rub the pasty substance all over Cas’s chest and t-shirt.

“Oops,” Dean mumbles against Cas’s mouth before he’s pulling away to lick a long line down Cas’s abs. He drags his tongue across the smooth, undulating planes, thumbing below Cas’s pantline with his own sticky fingers as his hands sweep behind Cas to grip his lower back. Drawing his hands back around, he flicks the buckle of Cas’s belt undone and pulls Cas’s dress pants down. They snag at Cas’s feet, and Cas does an awkward, ungraceful hop to untangle his legs. Dean laughs. He grasps Cas’s waist with his hands and curls around Cas’s body, pressing his mouth against the now exposed skin of his lower back, licking a long line down below Cas’s underwear. Cas shivers, grunting in protest.

“Sam or Kevin might hear, Dean, we can’t do this here,” he whispers, and Dean just rises to press his mouth against Cas’s again, moving his hands lower to pull at those tighty-whities. Cas’s hands drop to Dean’s soft tummy and his fingertips rasp against the hair there, his thumbs pressing against the pressure of Dean’s hardening cock through Dean’s jeans. Dean groans, low and needy.

“Forget them,” Dean says, smearing more applesauce up Cas’s spine. “They can’t hear nothin’”

“And you are getting pie everywhere; look, it’s even in your hair. I liked this place because it was orderly,” Cas huffs against Dean’s neck. “Are you going to clean this up afterwards?” Dean’s response is to hoist Cas up on to the bench and to finish licking the sticky mess from Cas’s stomach.

“Only you could worry about shit like cleanliness during foreplay, Cas,” Dean laughs against Cas’s skin. Cas frowns and tries to push Dean away.

“It is a legitimate concern.”

“Not right now, it’s not,” Dean says, gazing back at Cas, pupils blown wide. “Sex is better than pie. Consider this your apology.” He leans down to press kisses to Cas’s inner thigh. “I’ll uh, clean you up afterwards, no worries.”

Cas doesn’t get the innuendo; instead his features draw together in an exasperated pout. “Fine,” he mutters. Dean smirks before pushing his lips against Cas’s cock. Cas whimpers, a small, high sound that makes goosebumps erupt across Dean’s exposed skin. He eases the underwear off Cas’s ass and throws it to the ground, leaving Cas wearing only a very dirty shirt. Cas’s fingers pick at the hem of Dean’s own t-shirt, trying to pull it off, so Dean helps him and it, too, ends up on the floor.

“I want to fuck you,” Dean growls in to the shell of Cas’s ear. “We’ll have to use a substitute for lube, though, ‘cause I’m not risking leaving this room for the good stuff.” He pushes the angel back against the countertop, stepping backwards to grab the olive oil in the same motion.

“No,” Cas says, slipping off the counter, and because he’s a demanding little shit, follows that up with: “I’m going to fuck  _you_.”

Well,  _goddamn_. Dean’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever heard leave the angel’s lips. He’s all for equal opportunity, especially when it involves Cas and fucking in the same context.

“Uh, you know what you’re doing, right?” Dean says, surrendering the olive oil. Cas just rolls his eyes.

“We’ve done this before, Dean. I’m more concerned about the hygiene issues.” And in a rare display of angelic strength – Dean could swear that he is trying to show off – Cas picks Dean up and deposits him on the benchtop in one swift movement, managing to pop the buttons open on Dean’s jeans at the same time. They are removed briskly, along with Dean’s underwear, and in a matter of seconds he is lying flat on his back, butt naked, with an armful of blue-eyed angel pressed against the length of his body. His vision is suddenly filled with smudges of blues, blacks and golds as Cas kisses him with his eyes open, lips moving against Dean’s like his life depends on it. Cas is nothing if not enthusiastic about sex, and Dean finds it incredibly endearing. Not to mention a massive turn-on.

Next Cas is squeezing olive oil on to the fingers of his right hand. Dean shifts, his legs falling further open, length of his cock a full line against the scattering of dark hairs that run up to his navel. “This pie will never get baked,” Cas mutters before he’s pressing a finger in to Dean’s ass and sucking Dean’s hard cock in to the wet heat of his mouth. Dean moans. Cas nuzzles the junction of soft skin between Dean’s inner thigh and pubic bone with his nose, keeping a steady rhythm with his lips and finger.

“More,” Dean says. Cas pushes in a second fingertip as he makes needy keening noises around the shaft of Dean’s dick. “Jesus  _fuck._ ” Cas is doing something with his tongue that Dean isn’t quite sure is physically possible, but it feels goddamn excellent, so he’s not gonna complain. Soon there’s a third finger, and Cas’s mouth is kissing a line down to his fingers spreading Dean’s ass open. He fists Dean’s dick in the hand that isn’t pressing in to Dean’s ass before removing his arm, smearing applesauce along the crease of Dean’s ass, and pressing the flat of his tongue against Dean’s entrance. He licks his way through the mess; Dean whimpers. Then Dean can hear the telltale sound of flesh on flesh as Cas lubes up his cock and pushes in.

It’s awkward angles and bones, at first. Too many hard elbows and knees; too many wayward limbs and thoughts tangled and framed by the harsh fluorescent light that floods the kitchen. It a scuffle for purchase on the other’s body, more like fighting than making love. Their teeth and noses bump. Hands grip too hard or not hard enough. Hips stutter in counterpoint before breaking to alternate rhythms. The line of their bodies, in theory, should be a congruous melody or progression – a perfect fifth. Instead they’re more like a dissonant chord, notes shattering against each other yet still working somehow.

Dean can feel burn of Cas’s cock as it drags against his ass, trying to hit that sweet spot. Cas traps Dean in the cage of his limbs as he leans over Dean’s body caught on the kitchen countertop, expression intense as he stares downwards. He bites at his lip and regards Dean with the same sort of concentration he reserves for complex strategizing and practical physics. Dean would laugh if Cas wasn’t balls deep inside him and he could think coherent thoughts. Instead he kisses whatever parts of Cas’s skin he can reach, tasting the tart sweetness of fruit and sugar mixed with the natural musk of Cas’s skin. It’s heady and wonderful. Cas palms Dean’s cock again, nails raking at his pubic hair, and Dean tries not to arch off the marble. Cas adjusts his angle, then, and manages to hit the jackpot; Dean has to stifle his moan against Cas’s forearm.

Cas’s face begins to slacken, pace increasing, a red flush creeping up his chest and neck as he’s pushed closer to orgasm. There’s barely any blue left to his irises. His hand on Dean’s dick becomes rougher, less steady. Dean feels himself close to the precipice himself, bright lights dancing around the edges of his vision.

Dean comes first; his come spurts sticky and hot between their bodies, and he can’t help but cry out. Cas follows shortly thereafter, soundlessly, his face maintaining its controlled composure until he collapses against Dean’s chest. It takes a moment before Cas is easing out of Dean’s ass and looking at Dean like he might have the answers to all the questions in the universe.

“Er, a little help, here?” Dean mutters, trying to break the tension, feeling overexposed as he lies on his back in the middle of the fucking Men of Letter’s Bunker kitchen with Cas looking so serious. Literally in the blink of an eye, Cas is clean and re-clothed except for the tie and coat. He helps Dean off the counter, passes him his clothes, and looks wistfully over at the silver bowl still sitting on the kitchen bench.

“We can still cook the pie,” Dean offers, using his t-shirt to clean the mess off his stomach. Cas looks simultaneously alarmed and affronted.

“But that’s not sanitary.”

Dean shrugs. “If we move it to the opposite bench, it should be fine. We’ll cheat with the pastry. C’mon, I’ll show you how.”

* * *

 

 

Later that morning, Sam walks in to the main room to find a freshly baked pie sitting on the table.

“Do I want to know how that pie came to exist in our living area, Dean?” Sam says, eyeing the pie warily. “Please tell me that there’s such thing as a domestic fairy and that she’s blessed us?”

Dean just grins and pops a spoonful of pie in to his mouth. “Best damn pie I’ve ever cooked,” he says around a mouthful of apple and pastry. “And definitely the best goddamn apology pie I’ve eaten. Wouldn’t you agree, Cas?”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. But nonetheless, cooking it was as hard as I initially thought,” Cas muses.

Dean tries not to choke on his laughter.

 


End file.
